Ragnar #vikings Novels & Stories

he started, his voice quiet, steady, “about Ylva’s mom…” Ragnar exhaled, a long, measured breath that filled the room with its weight. His eyes softened just slightly, a flicker of vulnerability passing before he regained the cold composure he always wore. “Ylva doesn’t have a mother,” he said quietly, almost to himself. His gaze turned distant. “Neither do I have a wife. But that… that is a story for another time.” Lance hesitated, leaning slightly forward. “So… you don’t want to tell me? Or is it… a secret?”

Ragnar groaned as he insulted me. Growing sour at having my hands tied over my pack responsibilities I gazed at Ramsey. “Can you send a couple of scouts to Sweetwater to search for them then?” Nodding, he told me that he would immediately then he and Rita left me to myself. Lifting the receiver again I dialed Victor only for it to go directly to voicemail. “You have a care for the woman,” Ragnar chuckled accusingly and I hissed. “Lyric is my mate and the only way to secure my rightful pack,” I snarled, only for me to hear him tsk back at me.

This was where I met him—Ragnar, the rogue I’d fed coins and secrets to for years, my shadow, my blade in the dark. I pushed through the creaking door, my eyes adjusting to the dim light, my heart racing as Ragnar stepped forward, his hulking frame scarred, his yellow eyes gleaming with hunger. Not Darius, the warrior I’d pitched to Marcus, but Ragnar, a rogue so vile even the BloodMoon pack shunned him. He was my secret weapon, loyal only to my gold, my promises. “Veron,” he growled, his voice rough, his claws flexing. “What’s the job?”

took pity on Hoder and appreciated his efforts. Mimir gave the new Baldur the name Ragnar, but also a little knowledge and cunning. Vidar gave him the love of blood, battles and rage. Several Aesir protested, saying that Vidar's gift would be useless. A diminished or crippled Viking cannot fight. Bragi touched the tongue of the human with his finger so that he would console himself with the rune chants and poems he would be inspired by. If the outside is so sad, then the inside could at least be cheerful, he said.

Note: Events in this story are fictional and do not reflect actual Viking history. (900 AD – Before the Separation of Kingdoms) In the year 900 AD, before the Norse kingdoms split apart, there was one kingdom feared above all, Vikron. Its warriors were brutal. Their culture, violent. Yet, they were united. And at the center of that unity stood one man King Ragnor, named after the god of thunder himself. Ragnor led with blood and fire. His people raided distant lands, conquering village after village.

He might be looking at his future beta. When it came to battle, actual fighting, Rex got the 'wolf’s share' in the way of brute strength, but had a hard time controlling his rage, and needed an opponent who could help him focus that rage. As a Dark Alpha, Rex got into scraps constantly, losing more than winning , but he kept going.

Dalia Grey Vision Nordic lands 650 B.C Bjørn Stormrider was returning from his viking raids and like every other drakkar he had a longship full of loot from his pillagings and an unrelenting hitched to be buried once again in the arms of his wife and daughter

"Don't tell me you pity him because he is a cripple?" "He is a strategist.He doesn't see his cripplity as a weakness but strength.And the fact that he is unpredictable makes him the life of Vikings after Ragnar's death..." "What about Bjor?" "He is just like his father.He is the little version of Ragnar..." He pointed out dryly. "There is a new episode, we can watch it as we have some cake?" I wiggled my eyebrows at him. "Now we talking..." After the cake had cooled off, I placed four slices on a plate and returned to the living room ready to watch the afternoon away.

And then there was young Bjorn Ironfist, the jarl’s closest shield-brother, with sharp features, dark hair, and a body honed like a weapon, his gaze burning with a mix of conquest and something deeper. They had taken me not just as a slave, but as a prize—the woman who had slain three of their warriors before being overwhelmed. Now, as the ship neared their fjord homeland, they approached me. “You fight like a valkyrie,” Ragnar rumbled, his voice deep and resonant as he crouched before me, calloused fingers tilting my chin up. His touch sent an unwelcome spark through my body, heat pooling low despite the cold and my fury. “Such fire belongs in our hall, not wasted in chains.”

“I heard.” “No,” Xander pressed. “They didn’t just shelter there. They’re invested. Valerius doesn’t protect causes he doesn’t believe in. Neither does Ragnar.” That name, Ragnar Frostbane, sent an unwelcome memory through Xavier’s mind. A battlefield choked with ash. A king who had laughed while bleeding. A wolf who had refused to kneel even in defeat. “They should be dead,” Xavier said. “They were removed,” Xander corrected. “There’s a difference.” Xavier stopped.